Hover
by freya-sundust
Summary: It's been almost a year since the wolves have been moved. Grace, Sam, and Cole are facing life. As people. As wolves.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

**Sam**

My heart beat so rapidly within my chest that I was sure that it would burst out, right then. I fingered the lump in my pocket, playing over the rehearsed words again and again. I told myself that it was Grace, not my presidential inauguration. But I couldn't shake the feeling in my stomach, the flutter in my chest.

But then it was happening, and I was on my knee and I fumbled for the box and she was

smiling,  
laughing,

crying.

"Yes," She told me through teary eyes. "Yes, Sam. Yes."

"_I love you._" I exclaimed as I pulled our bodies together. I loved her. I loved her so much.

**Chapter One**

**Grace**

I woke to the sound of chirping birds, happy and wonderful. There was a moment between consciousness and slumber that was blissful: the birds, the morning sun, and the sweet scent of Sam next to me. For a moment everything was perfect and I clung to it with every ounce of strength my tired body could manage. Then I was awake, and it was over.

The moment I stretched my legs, I could feel the soreness in my muscles. An ache that lingered, even after I slumped back into my curled position. And my head. It hurt like hell. Sam's chest rose and fell against my back, timed and even. I was surprised to find him still asleep. I craned my neck over the edge of the bed and felt my way around the bedside table until I found what I was searching for, my phone. On it read the time, 9:32 AM in bright, round letters through my squinted eyes. Early for me, late for him.

Then, like he'd been reading my thoughts all along, he shifted next to me. He didn't stretch or yawn in the usual Sam way, but instead, sighed.

"Was I dreaming, or did all that actually happen last night?" He asked groggily. I turned to face him with a smile. His hand sat on his forehead, like he was searching for the full memory of the previous evening.

"Depends." I giggled, not at all like myself. I was morning drunk on Sam.

"On what?" He questioned.

"On what you remember." I replied easily. I watched him think this over. Sam always got that look, the one when he was really focused. I saw it on him when he played his guitar, or sometimes while he was reading. It was adorable and so Sam-like I almost couldn't bear it.

Suddenly he turned, reaching his arm behind his back. I watched him curiously, his hand fishing for something underneath him. It finally returned a moment later, holding a lacy white bra. My lacy white bra. I felt my cheeks fade into a burning shade of pink.

"It's all coming back to me now." He smiled widely, his grin illuminating the pale, grey room, lit only by the light streaming through the cracks in the curtains.

"Ugh." I groaned, and buried my face in my pillow. My head pounded with lingering alcohol and embarrassment.

"Oh, Grace, I was kidding." Sam said, but I didn't draw away from the pillow. I remained in its soft grasp, unwilling to face him. But even then, a smile hung on my cheeks.

"Grace," He sang into my ear. His shoulder was smashed into mine, and his heat radiated against me. I peaked my eyes out, but only slightly.

"Grace." He said again, this time a bit more deviously. I bit my lip, even though he could not see it. I cursed him for being so warm and wonderful and charming all at once. Before I could scold him for this, though, I felt his arms slide around my bare midriff and lift me from the pillow, despite my girlish squeals of opposition. In one swift move, he flipped himself onto his back, so that my stomach hovered just over his, as long as his arms held me. Slowly, though, he lowered me down until our noses touched and I could feel his smile against my own. He slid his fingers through my hair and then tightened his arms around my shoulders in a protective hold.

"I think I'm still drunk." Sam mumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut to ward off what I'm sure was the twin headache of my own. I rolled back next to him, wiggling my toes against the soft covers.

"Do you think Cole's alive?" I wondered aloud, but Sam just laughed. If I thought I could get drunk, I'd never seen Cole in action. I was sure he was going to die, or pass out, or least throw up. But he did none of those things, at least not before I stumbled back to Sam's room. Whether he lasted the night or not, I wasn't sure.

We laid there in silence for some minutes, only accompanied by the birds and Sam's growling stomach. I eventually pulled myself from the bed, and plucked my scattered clothes from the floor. Sam smirked while I did this, and I shot him a dirty look as I slid into one of t-shirts and padded down the hall to the bathroom.

I almost dropped my head in the sink as I splashed it with cold water, although it had no effect of my state of alertness. Isn't that what they always did, in the movies? They splashed themselves with some cold water and gritted their teeth and faced the day. But all I wanted to do was go back to bed. I couldn't even remember what day it was, let alone was I ready to face it with an eager smile.

I found Sam in the hall, a shirt half pulled over his head and his sweats sliding down his waist. He adjusted his shirt and then yanked his pants up, and I smiled at his goofy appearance. His hair stuck up against his head in a thousand directions and lines were pressed into his face after a a night of still and deep sleep. His eyes were red and his face tired, but he was Sam. Like I'd always known him.

"Breakfast?" I suggested, and he nodded lackadaisically. He me followed down to the kitchen, and already I could see the mess from the night before. The rocker laid on its side, and the salt and pepper had been poured out at the bottom of the stairs. I examined it oddly, and I heard Sam chuckle behind me.

"We were really drunk." He confirmed. The kitchen was disorganized and smelled vaguely of burnt cheese. I stepped over the rocker to reach the island in the center of the cold-floored kitchen.

I examined the contents of the fridge, odd leftovers and milk a few days old. I sighed and settled on a half-empty carton of eggs.

"Omelets?" I asked, and Sam called a yes from the bottom of the steps, where he clumsily scraped up the salt. I started to crack the eggs into a tall cup when I heard a groan.

"Cole?" I asked in disbelief, and leaned over the island. Sure enough, there laid Cole, his cheek pressed to the rug and his arms sprawled across the floor. His back was bare, his shirt only a few feet from him. From the odd discoloration and sour smell, something told me Cole hadn't, in fact, lasted the night without his stomach betraying him.

"Oh, my god." I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. I couldn't help a grin, although the whole picture was rather pathetic. I knew I should have moved him to his bed, or at least to the couch, but he didn't seem in any state to be on his feet. So I just stepped over him to retrieve a fork, and then went back to my whisking.

"He lives." Sam commented, pouring the contents of several plastic cups down the drain. Cole grumbled something neither of us could understand, but I could guess that it was something equally snarky and inappropriate. That was Cole. Brash, cocky, and occasionally, a wolf

Sam greased a pan and set it onto the stove, turning the knob and lighting a white-blue flame beneath it. I poured my eggs into the pan with a sizzling result. I pushed them around and around with the green rubber spatula Sam had gotten me for Christmas, until they looked at least half-way appetizing.

"Plate." I instructed Sam, who hovered two plates over the pan almost instantly. I roughly sliced the omelet in half with my spatula, offering a section to Sam's plate and a section to mine.

"And is St. Clair hungry, too?" I asked, crouching down with my plate of eggs. Cole's only response was a wrinkled nose.

"Guess not." Sam shrugged as I slid next to him at the messy kitchen table, covered in the last month's dishes and various bottles of pills. Sam was tearing at his omelet, taking large bites, stopping only to inhale a slurp of orange juice. But when I brought the egg to my mouth, my stomach flipped.

I groaned and set the fork back down, a wave of nausea and headache washing over me at the same time. I suddenly regretted the last few drinks from the night before. It took a moment for Sam to look away from his plate before he noticed my distress.

"Grace," said Sam, "Are you alright?" And from his perspective, I must have looked very not all right. I didn't feel all right, not at all.

"No," I groaned, and pushed the eggs out of my sight. "My stomach."

I knew I shouldn't have said it right as I let it escape, because I could almost hear Sam's stomach flip. I knew what nausea meant to him. Wolf.

"I'm not going to change." I assured him, probably cutting him off from asking that very question. He sat back in his chair as I said it, but he still looked concerned.

"Don't let me drink. Ever again." I moaned, and a grumble from behind the island suggested that Cole seconded this notion. Sam smiled sadly and then rose from his seat and picked me up, all in one motion. He carried me back up the stairs, his feet pressing, pressing, pressing against each step in a manner that felt more violent to my sensitive head than it really was. My stomach twisted.

He set me back in bed, gently. He brought the covers around my shoulders and kissed my forehead, like my dad might have done when I was little if he hadn't had a life separate from mine. Despite my pounding headache and nausea, I felt happy.

"You're a good husband." I mumbled, mostly into the pillow. I couldn't see Sam's reaction, as my eyes we're already sliding shut, but his voice suggested he was smiling.

"I love you." He responded, and then he was gone.

**Sam**

When I finally heard Grace stirring, it was nearly two o'clock. Since breakfast, I'd read through my copy of The Great Gatsby, left here by Beck. I heard her stumble to the bathroom, and then throw up. I reminded myself that this is what husbands did: they read and waited while their wife slept off a hangover.

It wasn't that I had forgotten the fact that this was my duty as a good husband, but more like I'd been happily revisited by the thought. I wasn't regretful, but the opposite; I was so lucky to be married to Grace.

She didn't come downstairs right away, but hovered. My senses were nothing of that of my old wolf self, but the house was old enough-and familiar enough-that I knew the patterns of footsteps as they moved around the house. And now, I knew, Grace was waiting at the top of the stairs. Maybe she was still waking up, or maybe she was considering a second trip to the bathroom. But whatever it was, she hesitated.

I considered running up to her, but quickly decided against it. She had a hangover, nothing more. She needed space, and Advil. Not my questions. But there it was again, that knot in my stomach and that thing gnawing at my brain that told me there was something more to her sickness. Like if didn't run after her now, she'd shift and be gone before I could even say goodbye.

I shook the thought from my head. She was fine. She was fine. She'd said so herself. We'd stopped keeping secrets from each other a long time ago. If she thought something was wrong, she would have told me.

So I sat in be Beck's office that was now more like Cole's office, and waited. Waited until she found her way to me in that little room: pale, tired, but alive. She instructed me to scoot over, when really she just wanted me to hold her.

"Hey," I said as she collapsed on my lap. Her hands were cold and she smelled like mint toothpaste.

"Feeling better?" I asked hopefully. She pressed her head to my chest. She played with the two rings on her finger, turning them each around and around, occasionally catching afternoon light.

"I guess." She shrugged. She felt small in my arms, like a child.

"Isabel called." I informed her. Once I'd explained the state of two-thirds of the household (the two-thirds in which she'd been most eager to talk), she didn't have much to say. Isabel and I never connected the way she had with Cole or Grace, so the conversation died quickly. She asked me-no, instructed me to have Cole return her call, and if possible, soon. I don't know what they usually discussed on the phone, but Isabel made it sound important. So I promised her I would relay the message.

"What'd she have to say?" Grace asked weakly. Her voice was raw, probably from the puking.

"Not much. Looking for you and Cole." I explained.

"Is Cole up yet?" She asked then, and I realized I hadn't checked on him. But, I hadn't heard movement in the kitchen since my settling in the office, so I shook my head.

"Wonder if he feels as as shitty as I do." She sighed, and I kissed the top of her head. I felt bad for her, I really did. I also thanked my previous self for not pouring that last drink or else Grace and I might be in the same boat. Someone had to be the adult, though, if even for the day. And today, it was my turn.

I held Grace for a while, her legs tucked under her weight and her head on my chest. The least I could do was hold her until the alcohol had finally drained from her system.

I didn't realize she had fallen asleep until I heard her gentle snoring. It was odd, Grace never snored. I blamed it on the liquor, though, and carried her back to our bed. This time, I laid with her.

**Cole**

The first thing I felt was the bile in the back of my throat, like I hadn't swallowed in a week. A river of saliva was pooling under my cheek, but I didn't bother to wipe it away. A string of curses flipped through my foggy brain as I attempted to lift myself from the floor. No luck.

As I lifted my hand to my face, my fingers caught on something stuck to my cheek. I examined it with between my fingers for a moment, until the word came to me: sticky note. There was sticky note stuck to my cheek.

I pulled it off, and held it right in front of my eyes. It was just black smudges. But wait, no. My eyes were focusing and I saw the smudges forming into letters, until Sam's scratchy handwriting appeared.

_Isabel called._

_Take a shower._

So she called. The fact didn't really surprise me, but instead, satisfied me. It was easier to miss someone when they missed you back. Or at least I thought so.

When I was sure my stomach was steady, I carefully sat up and examined my surrounding area. A scene of drool and unidentifiable smells. And an empty needle. I sighed and peeled my shirt from the ground, and headed straight for the shower.

I let the hot water punch my back until I got tired of standing, and then I sat. A pool of water formed around me, suds and probably puke residue. Another long sigh.

After a considerable amount of time that I couldn't keep track of, I wrapped up in a towel and headed back into my room. First, though, I ducked my head into Sam's room to check on the happy couple. Both asleep, and probably hungover. They probably had it worse than I did. Neither of them ever struck me as heavy drinkers, whereas I had been drinking ever since I could hold a glass. Or more likely, since the day NARKOTIKA got signed.

In my room I found a sea of dirty clothes and an empty dresser. I did laundry never. That was something Isabel used to force me to do, before she left in June. Had it really been so many months? It was March now. Shit, so much time had passed. The thought left a hollow feeling in my stomach.

I decided on a slightly less questionable pair of sweats and called Isabel back.

I swear she answered before I'd even punched in the number. That was her, though.

"Finally." She groaned. She sounded breathless. Maybe she'd been running, or making out with some guy from the beach. Or both.

"Come back." I said firstly, without even a hello. Because that's what I always said first, every time she called. Come back. This tiny town was nothing without her.

"Sam said you were drunk." She replied, easily ignoring my request. I'd expected it, though. It's take more than a simple wish to bring a force like Isabel Culpeper back.

"I think I still am." I sighed. She released a choppy laugh through the line.

"Sam and Grace, too?"

"Sam and Grace, too." I confirmed. I could tell she was equally surprised by this fact as I was. Sam and Grace were responsible, that was the truth. I was the kid who drank and took pills and ran away from his life. Not them.

"So I can assume that Grace is still in bed?" She asked.

"Yep," I nodded, but as I said it, I heard movement in the room across the hall. I could herd Grace in here, but that meant I'd have to say goodbye. And I was just selfish enough to leave the statement uncorrected. I shouldn't have done it, but I was too infatuated to mind.

"And how's her counterpart?" She sighed. I imagined her in her room, filing her nails like she already knew the answer to her question. I chuckled.

"In love. Annoyingly so." I replied, and I think she must have nodded on the other side. I heard the distinct muffle of voices in the background, but soft enough that I couldn't make out their words or to whom they belonged.

"And how are you?" She added in a sickly sweet voice, something right out of a 60's sitcom. My smile widened.

"Tired, hungover, and much less wolf than a month ago." I answered. And although it was bitter and sarcastic, she seemed oddly pleased with the response. Like she was glad to know that I was okay, even if I was drunk. I was glad she cared.

"You know, I heard your song on the radio today." She said, like I should have known.

"Did they?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I didn't listen to the radio much these days.

"Tribute to the boy who changed the face of music." She read to me. I let out a bitter laugh.

"No one cares until you're dead." I said, and even though she probably didn't know it, it had been dubbed from one of the first songs I ever recorded. The memory used to be a good one, but it was stale now. I'd spent too much time in another life to love my old one.

"Call me when you're dead." Was all she said back, and then the line went dead. I held the phone to my ear for a while longer, letting her voice echo in thoughts to the dull tone playing from the speaker. Why was it so hard to give up something you never had? If it had been another time, I might have written it down to examine the thought further, but it seemed pointless now. My wet hair clung to my neck and the sheet that had once been wrapped around my mattress was now crumpled and pulled away. I made a note to fix it, even though I never would.

I laid there and hoped I would fall asleep, but it never came. Maybe I should get drunk again, I thought. It seemed, in the moment, to be the best and simplest solution to a problem that could never truly be solved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Grace**

Sam and I lived fairly even lives. It wasn't as if we didn't love the exciting or thrilling moments in life, but we both believed in a balance between those moments and quieter ones. Watching the sun set. Driving along an even road until it runs out. Being together.

So it was a bit of a shock to wake up at 9:00 PM, headache gone but mouth dry and eyes drooping. I felt as I'd I had been asleep for a century, and maybe I had. Sam was lying next to me, but I knew he was awake.

"Morning." I said, raspy and dry. He chuckled and turned his body toward mine; he usually drifted away in the night. I pulled him closer.

"I have work in the morning." He stated. I didn't entirely understand, until I realized that it was, in fact, 9:00 PM. We wouldn't sleep again, not after our afternoon hibernation. I sighed a sigh that told him I was sorry, told him I was happy, told him that I loved him.

"I can't stay in bed anymore." He announced, and rolled from the bed. His black hair stuck up in odd directions, bringing a grin to my face.

He offered his hand, all gentleman-like and not at all like Sam. I took it, and curtsied as he pulled me from the bed. Then he connected his lips with mine, until one of us had to breathe.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him, suddenly realizing the ache in my stomach. Had it been only this morning my stomach had refused the omelet? It felt like it had been days. Never had I spent so long in bed. Of course, I'd never been so drunk.

"Starving." He nodded, and then pulled on a big, grey sweatshirt. He was cold, like always. It was a constant debate: the temperature of the house. He was always freezing, insisting that I turn the heat up. So up I'd turn it and within minutes I was sweating, begging to turn it down. Up, down, up, down. I'm sure the electric company was baffled by our bipolar temperature shifts. Cole never minded, though, usually rolling his eyes at our simple argument. He didn't mind much at all, really. Whether that was good or bad, I wasn't sure yet.

"Let's get Chinese." I suggested as we stomped down the stairs, our steps heavier than usual. Sam turned back with a surprised expression on his face.

"Chinese?" He asked, and I nodded. "You want Chinese?" He repeated. I nodded. Again.

"It just sounds so good." I shrugged. I had never particularly enjoyed Chinese food, even though Sam loved it. My parents used to shove leftovers in the fridge, noodles and egg rolls and unnamed meats. But I'd never loved it, at least not until now. But now, all I could think of was hot, steaming food.

"All right." Sam laughed, and then mimicked my shrug. I could tell that he was surprised, but he would never shoot down an opportunity to eat an egg roll.

I slid on my coat, although it was oddly warm for March. But I hadn't been outside all day and Minnesota loved surprises. Sam grabbed his keys from the counter and then his wallet, but paused before following me out the door.

"Cole!" He called into the house, and it emanated through the hollow rooms. "We're grabbing food. Do you want to come along?"

There was a response I didn't hear, and then something more from Sam I couldn't understand. Finally he tugged the door shut and headed toward the car, just in time for another mighty rumble of my stomach.

"Is he coming?" I asked, sliding into the passenger seat. I pushed away a guitar pick and some napkins, and shoved them into the console.

"He's 'meditating', I guess." Sam replied. He slid the keys into the ignition with a loud roar from the engine. I almost asked to drive, but then he was off and down the drive before I could even offer.

Sam drove well, but in a different way than me. He liked to go slowly, like he was admiring everything as it passed. Trees, houses, highways. I'd asked him once why he drove so slowly, and he told me that he didn't want to miss anything. But what could he miss? Nothing that I could fathom. Flat land led into thick woods that held nothing but old secrets and poison ivy. And although I liked to pretend to be oblivious, I think something inside of me always knew. He was watching for the wolves.

Tonight was no different than his usual driving habits. Slow, easy turns that matched the soft song leaking from the radio. Part of me laughed and told him to "Speed it up, old man". But the other half of me, the instinctual one, turned an ear and joined him to listen as we passed the woods. We both found silence.

There was a part of me that longed for something beyond Mercy Falls. Watching the plain landscape rush by in a blur made me realize it yet again. I wanted more than the college in Duluth or the occasional visit to my parents or the greasy diners in town. Sam wanted more, too. He'd told me, late at night when secrets were easier to share. There was more to this world than his small job at the bookstore, even a full time position, he usually laughed. Was he happy with this life? I'm not sure. He walked and talked and sang like there was no reason to be unhappy, but sometimes I saw it in his eyes. But then I was reminded that I was with him, for as long as it could ever be, and maybe that was enough. Plus, we were already in town and I couldn't linger on the thought any longer.

China Palace was a small, grimy building with a blinking sign that advertised lunch specials and free refills. Sam sometimes brought it home wrapped in white boxes with a fortune cookie he took too seriously. I never liked it, not enough to find my way there. But tonight I could think of nothing better than China Palace. It sounded so good. The kind of good Isabelle would turn her nose at as she listed the reasons it will give me heart attack or a rash or something. She was probably eating sushi in California, with sunglasses on while she impressed waiters. I smiled at the thought.

"I'm thinking maybe I should write this down." Sam said as we walked across the pothole-pocked parking lot, my hand in his. "Grace's First Time." He added, outlining it in the air like it was some big idea. I rolled my eyes.

"Don't make me change my mind." I warned him. We stepped onto the crooked sidewalk and entered the building with a rush of warm air and greasy food.

Sam plucked a paper menu from the counter and held it up for us both to see. China Palace was the kind of place that had disposable menus and a counter to order at. Just a few old tables and metal chairs, the occasional poster or framed, stereotypical, oriental artwork.

At the counter sat an old woman, her gray hair to match her thin eyes. Sam smiled at the sight. He was probably thinking about something poetic like I always imagined he did, but all I could think of was food, food, food.

"What are you getting?" I asked him, his eyes still scanning the menu in the dim light of the restaurant.

"Egg drop soup." He replied easily. He probably had the right idea, considering how empty both of our stomachs were. Mild was the best choice. But a long order later, we left with his soup and my plate of spicy noodles and chicken, enough to feed a small family.

He only watched as I inhaled the noodles within the confines of his car, carefully wrapping each noodle around my fork. I took a break only for a breath and a sip of his Coke.

"Hungry?" He asked with raised brows. I nodded eagerly. It felt like I'd never been hungrier.

"Isabelle called." He said then, like maybe he'd just remembered or maybe he was waiting for the right time to tell me. My stomach dropped at his tone; something in his voice seemed alarmed. But then he shook his head. "Looking for Cole, and you."

Cole. I had to admit that it was nice having him around since his long winter absence, although short compared to his fellow wolves. He'd changed back the first time in Februrary, completely unheard of according to Sam, especially considering he'd only changed right before December. He shifted back and forth for a couple of weeks before he stuck for good right before March. We'd worked on the lodge all winter and it could have been a nice enough place for him to stay. But when he showed up at our doorstep, Beck's doorstep, half naked and covered in mud, we let him in and that was it. An unspoken agreement that he would stay here, with us. For a few days he was shaky. He organized the towels once and then again. He watched the static television channel all afternoon. He tried to shift back. But then he was stuck in his tall, blonde, Cole body and he accepted it. He was just him; it just us. Me, Sam, and Cole St. Clair.

"I'll call her later." I responded idly. I'm sure Isabelle was pleased to hear Cole had turned back. It was hard enough to miss someone who stalked the woods, but at least they were there, in a way. Off in California, she couldn't hear his howls, let alone see his face. She was utterly alone. His return relieved her.

It had been a year since Isabelle had left, only a little less. In that time, I realized, I'd graduated high school, started college, and married Sam. Had it only been that long? Before any of this-Sam, Cole, all of it-I went to school and cooked supper and read long books. That was my life, plain and quiet. I had never shifted, and Sam was just a wolf. It was that thought that intrigued me the most. Two years ago, Sam was the yellow-eyed wolf who saved me. He had no name. Just a face and a longing howl. How did I ever live without him? I couldn't fathom a life without the matters we faced. It just didn't make sense anymore.

But then maybe it could. Make sense, I mean. Because since I'd pushed the infected blood into my veins and I miraculously woke up again, I was just Grace. No more wolf, at least for a while. I attended college and got married, and those things should have justified my normality. But something lingered in my brain, the beginnings of a dangerous idea: that you never truly stopped being a wolf.

It usually came late in the night, when I'd wake up from a dream I couldn't remember and I felt it. My bones ached, my stomach quivered, and I couldn't make sense of any thoughts. I was not a human, but I was not a wolf. I was something in between that should never exist. And then, like clockwork, things became clear and it was over. I was me.

I told Sam after it had happened a third time, and he responded with scared, yellow eyes. The truth was that he was more afraid of losing me than I was of losing myself. So he set the thermostat to 90 degrees and picked at his guitar until his fingers were raw and I wished I wouldn't have told him.

"Grace," Sam said then, washing away my thoughts and bringing me back to the present. I was back in the car, my plate balanced in my lap. I turned my eyes to him.

"I-um," He stuttered. Like he couldn't find his words. Sam always knew what to say, and so his inability to find the right words both frightened and intrigued me.

"I got a letter yesterday." He released finally, and then met my eyes. He looked at me like he was waiting for some confirmation.

"A letter." I repeated, as to make sure I'd heard him correctly. It sounded harmless enough. I couldn't think of the last envelope-related death I'd heard of, though I didn't tell him this. Something told me he wouldn't find it as funny as I did.

"From... my sister." He added nervously. Then he rubbed his eyes like he regretted saying it.

"Your sister?" I echoed. I had begun the habit of repetition, but in the moment I couldn't help it. "I didn't know-"

"I don't. I-I didn't." He cut me off. "At least I thought I didn't."

"What?" I sputtered.

"She...my mom-she was pregnant. When she went to, uh. Prison. I guess." He explained. His words were choppy and nervous, reminding me of a shy kid during an English presentation. Not at all like Sam, with his usually smooth sentences. He rubbed his hands through his hair.

I said: "Oh," because I couldn't think of a better response. If things were different and it was me who needed comfort in words, Sam would have known what to say. But I was just Grace, and all I had to offer was my quiet "Oh."

"I don't know, I guess she's, what, twelve?" He asked, but it was a rhetorical question. He didn't really need an answer. "Her parents-the people who adopted her, they wrote me. I don't know how they found me, but they did. I don't know."

I just watched, and listened.

"I feel kind of stupid now, thinking I was the only kid who had to grow up with parents in prison," He almost laughed. "Pity party's over."

I smiled, but sadly. This didn't really seem funny to me, but a smile seemed the kindest response.

"Her name's Caroline." He added finally, and then nodded. I stared forward, watching a crow waddle across the parking lot. It occasionally pecked at the ground, but otherwise seemed careless. For a moment I wished to be the crow.

"I love you." I replied then, and he finally flashed me his warm smile. I knew it wasn't enough to just say that, but I couldn't think of anything else. He didn't mind, I hoped.

We sat in silence for a while, watching the crow and thinking of another life. Or at least I was. I couldn't be sure of what Sam thought, though his hands shook as he clenched the steering wheel. I wished I knew what could save him from a life he should have never lived.

Of course to Caroline and her parents, Sam was just a boy who shared her genes. He wasn't Beck's son, or a wolf, or something I could call my own. They knew nothing of the life he lived except the one they could read in the papers. He was an anonymous orphan, or he might as well have been. I knew he wouldn't like that title.

We drove home after I lost my appetite, nothing but the road to keep our minds busy. I saw him attempt words several times, but he always paused and the thought retreated in again. By the time we pulled into the driveway, he had formed one sentence:

"I want to meet her." He said, both confident and scared. I hadn't realized it possible, but he proved it so. I agreed wordlessly, and follows him back into the house, his hand in mine.

The next day, Sam was at work and I was supposed to be at class. But my head ached and I didn't particularly like the thought of driving all that way alone. Usually I didn't mind the drive, but today I was tired and my thoughts were somewhere else.

Specifically, with the letter Sam had shown the night before. Evenly handwritten, it explained Caroline's adoptive parents delicately. Who they were, how they'd adopted her, where they were from (Duluth, oddly). I read it over, and then again. My eyes lingered especially on the ending, the two curvy names. Doug and Marie Settler. Two plain names with plain stories, but they dug at me. What if Sam had grown up with them instead of Beck? Would he go to school in Duluth and live in a square, suburban house? I couldn't imagine it. I suddenly felt very angry, and then very relieved. The former because Sam was never given the life he really deserved, even if Beck loved him, and the latter because he had. Because he was my wolf, and any other thought was too odd to bear.

I wandered around the house until Cole woke up, red faced and sweating.

"Were you out for a jog?" I asked him, but he just shook his head.

"Dreaming." He replied, "Just as taxing."

Sam wasn't due home until five, so I decided to clean myself up and head into town. I'd make a dinner, something nice that he loved. Unfortunately, the Mercy Falls supermarket was fresh out of instant macaroni, so I decided on the next best choice. Cheesecake.

I strolled down the empty aisles, occasionally plucking an ingredient or two from its spot on the shelf. By three o'clock I had collected everything I needed and began for the checkout. I loaded my car and headed back to the house.

I had fallen out of the habit of cooking, but it felt like I'd never stopped as soon as I dusted off an old cookbook and began separating ingredients. Eggs, flour, sugar. Cole ducked in occasionally, sniffing around until he was satisfied. By the time it was set on the counter and I had begun adorning it with strawberries, I heard the familiar jingle of keys at the back door.

"Grace?" Sam called, and found me in the kitchen, a surprised expression painted across his face.

"Playing hooky." I explained before he could ask it. He nodded.

"Filled in at the Food Network instead?" He asked, throwing his jacket over the chair. I grinned.

"That looks delicious." He added, and dipped his finger into the top, scraping away a strawberry. I swatted his hand away.

"Hey!" I smiled, "You'll spoil your supper."

Sam did the honors of slicing the cheesecake into wide pieces, and we stuffed ourselves full. Cole told us a story of the first time he'd ever had cheesecake in New York, how he'd choked and almost died, until the waiter stepped in and did CPR. It wasn't that funny, but we laughed and laughed. It felt good.

After dinner, or dessert, Sam picked me up from my chair and carried me like a baby to our room. I protested, hitting his arm and kicking, but he wouldn't put me down. He placed me on the bed and lowered himself over me.

"I'm so tired." He said, and I groaned.

"Don't tell me that now." I pleaded, and he laughed. His arms were warm and strong around me, and if he wasn't so visibly tired, I would have put them to use.

He collapsed next to me, his scent blowing over me. It wasn't quite like it used to be, less of the woods and more of the bookstore, and a little bit of aftershave. But he was still Sam.

He'd always be Sam.


End file.
